Christmas in Paris (22 page)

She selected a cotton robe and noticed the red satin gown she'd worn to the Red Cross charity ball. It looked so familiar, perhaps she saw a woman wearing it at the Palais Garnier.

She climbed into bed and remembered where she had seen it; it was the dress that was in Alec's illustration. She pulled the sheets over her shoulders and fell asleep.

 

chapter thirteen

Alec fiddled with his colored pencil and studied the sketch of Gus wearing a red cape and carrying a wicker basket. Gus stood next to a bed and looked worriedly at the wolf under the covers. Alec tossed the pencil on the desk and strode to the window.

He had stayed up all night drawing Gus and two little pigs waiting for the wolf to blow down their thatched cottage, and Gus striding through the forest on his way to Grandma's house. He wondered why there were so many wolves in fairy tales and poured another shot of brandy. He finally switched to coffee and fell asleep clutching his notepad.

Now it was midmorning and clouds hung over the Place de la Concorde. He really should take off his suit and shower, but first he was determined to finish one illustration.

Usually ideas came so quickly, he kept a notepad in his pocket. He could be buying honey at the outdoor market in Montmartre and suddenly want to draw Gus fighting off a swarm of angry bees at a bee farm in Tanzania.

But ever since he and Isabel returned from Versailles, his mind was blank. At first he thought it was because he was sick, and all he needed was a bowl of soup and some aspirin. But now his fever was down and he still couldn't think of a drawing that didn't include a handsome prince or wicked witch.

The last time he had been blocked was a few weeks after he proposed to Celine. He got two wisdom teeth extracted and accepted her invitation to recuperate on her sofa. It was still the honeymoon period of their relationship, when he didn't mind that her coffee cups had lipstick stains and she allowed him to dry his undershirts on the clothesline in her garden.

*   *   *

“GETTING ONE'S WISDOM
teeth extracted is like agreeing to a lobotomy,” Alec groaned, holding a frozen bag of peas against his cheek. “You go into the dentist's office with a jaunty step and eating a bag of toffees and come out feeling like a zombie and with cheeks the size of pillows.”

“You can barely see the swelling,” Celine said. It was Saturday and she was curled up in an armchair with a bowl of café au lait and a copy of
Don Quixote
in Spanish. “I don't know why you're complaining. The dentist gave you a bottle of painkillers and I stocked the fridge with fresh orange juice and ice cream.”

“If I take the painkillers, I feel like I'm in a car wash,” he muttered. “I have a deadline and I haven't been able to draw anything except Gus lying in bed with a cold compress.”

“It can't be that difficult.” She flipped the page. “It is a children's book.”

“Just because I'm not writing a six-hundred-page tome about chasing windmills doesn't mean it's not important.” Alec bristled, glancing at the cover of her book. “And who reads an original text of
Don Quixote
? I'd rather get my remaining two wisdom teeth out.”

“I have to read it for work.” Celine smoothed her hair. “We have a Spanish diplomat speaking before the General Conference.”

“And I have to fill this sketch pad or I'll be eating frozen peas for dinner for a month.” He grimaced. “Children expect Gus to cross a rushing river with crocodiles snapping at his paws or dangle from the tail of an airplane above shark-infested waters. I can't draw him sitting in his doghouse with a cup of tea and his remote.”

“It's a warm afternoon, I'm going to walk in the Bois de Boulogne.” She stood up and peeled off a sweater.

Alec waited until she left and then moved around the living room. His cheek throbbed, but it felt good to stretch his legs. He picked up Celine's sweater and chuckled. Her books were lined up in alphabetical order and her lipsticks were arranged by color, but she shed her clothes like a harem dancer.

He inhaled her scent on the fabric and sighed. They hadn't made love since he returned from the dentist and he longed to kiss her. Suddenly he froze. That's why he was blocked! Every time he tried to picture Gus ambushing a stagecoach, he saw Celine's ripe breasts and luscious thighs. All his fantasies involved the woman standing in front of him.

He glanced in the mirror and thought he couldn't navigate the metro or call a taxi looking like a squirrel. He gathered his notebook and pencils and opened the French doors to the garden. He would get in a couple of hours work away from her porcelain teacup and silver hairbrush and the photo of her waterskiing in Ibiza.

Celine's garden was filled with rosebushes and bougainvillea and azaleas. He pictured his own fifth-floor flat with the shriveled tomato in the window box and thought it would be quite nice to live here when they were married.

He drew Gus on a tropical island reclining under a palm tree. Gus held a frothy drink in one paw and nibbled a slice of coconut. But then the natives appeared and announced they were going to sacrifice a maiden at sunset. Gus dropped the daiquiri and grabbed his spear and followed them to the base of the volcano.

How could Gus save the maiden without getting them both thrown into the molten lava? He felt a raindrop on the back of his neck and rain splattered his sketchbook. He gathered his pencil box and hurried into the living room.

He settled on the sofa and hunched over the notepad. He had to finish; he couldn't be distracted by Celine's hair ribbon on the love seat or her sandal wedged under the rug. The front door opened and Celine entered the foyer.

“I was in the middle of the Bois de Boulogne when it started raining,” she said, shaking water out of her hair.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching her shrug off her jacket.

“I'm sopping wet,” she explained. “I'm going to take a hot shower.”

“You can't get undressed here,” he protested, his forehead covered in sweat. “Go into the bedroom.”

“I can do whatever I want,” she replied. “It is my apartment.”

He tried to concentrate on his sketch, but it was no use. Her slacks outlined her thighs and her wet blouse clung to her breasts. God, he missed touching them! But his jaw ached if he made any sudden movements and he could as easily make love as climb into the mouth of the volcano.

She crossed the living room and opened the door to the bedroom. He watched her unzip her slacks and slip off her panties. She unsnapped her bra and he knew he was finished.

He looked down at his sketch pad, and all he could see was Celine's full mouth and the birthmark on her thigh. The water ran in the shower and the desert island evaporated like a mirage.

He didn't know what was worst: the pain in his jaw, Gus's failure to save the sacrificial maiden, or the fact that the most beautiful woman in Paris was naked and soaking wet and he could do nothing about it.

He grabbed the bag of frozen peas and sank back onto the sofa.

*   *   *

ALEC GLANCED AT
the fruit basket Isabel had left on the coffee table and his heart raced. He was blocked because he was falling in love with Isabel! She had never looked so lovely as last night. The diamond earrings made her dark eyes sparkle and her lips shimmered with red lipstick. When she talked about the opera and supper at Café de la Paix, he could listen to her forever.

How had this happened and what could he do about it? Isabel was hoping she'd be engaged by this evening. And if he didn't finish this set of illustrations, he'd never pay off his charge cards.

There was a knock at the door and he answered it.

“Did you sleep in that suit?” Mathieu asked, entering the suite. “You look like one of the homeless people on the Pont Marie.”

“It's an old trick I use to unblock my creativity.” Alec waved his hand. “I was awake all night trying to come up with an original story line, and all I have is Gus entering a cottage made of candy canes. If Gus was thinking clearly, he would realize you can't devour gumdrops without paying a price.” He crumpled the paper. “Of course the cottage is owned by a wicked witch.”

“I don't understand.” Mathieu folded his raincoat over a chair.

“The minute you let someone into your heart, they ruin your thought processes,” Alec groaned. “Love is more destructive than drinking a bottle of Absolut and eating a box of Henri Le Roux chocolates.”

“Has Celine come back?” Mathieu glanced around the living room.

“Of course not.” Alec shook his head. “Last night Isabel appeared in an emerald ball gown and diamond earrings. Her eyes were coated with mascara and she looked like an ingénue.” He paused. “She has a business degree, but she trusts her future to a fortune-teller. She's like a child exploring Paris, but she knows more about French history than most Parisians.” His eyes flickered. “And when she laughs you try to remember what you said because you never want her to stop.”

“This is great news,” Mathieu said. “Your problems are solved.”

“How can it be good news? Tonight she's taking a dinner cruise on the Seine and hoping Antoine will propose.” He ran his hands through his hair. “The next time I see her, she'll practically be Comtesse de Villoy.”

“Tell her you're a viscount and that you're in love with her,” Mathieu insisted. “You'll get your inheritance soon. Go to Van Cleef and Arpels and ask for Henri. He'll let you buy a diamond ring on credit.”

“I can't tell her I'm a viscount!” he spluttered. “She'd be furious I didn't mention it sooner. And if I did, I'd never know if she was in love with me or thought she should marry a French aristocrat.”

“But you are a viscount and you are in love with her.” Mathieu poured a glass of sparkling water. “You'd be telling the truth.”

“Love is hard enough without knowing how the other person feels,” Alec argued. “What if I came down with a terrible disease and she had to take care of me? I couldn't expect her to feed me consommé and change my bed linens unless she was in love with me.”

“You're thirty-one and healthy as a horse,” Mathieu said. “You have decades to look forward to.”

“You don't understand, I fell in love with Celine and thought she felt the same,” Alec said slowly. “We were going to live in her flat on the Rue Saint-Honoré and have a chubby baby. Eventually we'd want more children, so we'd move to a bigger apartment in the seventh arrondissement or buy a house near my mother,” he mused. “In the month of August, the children would stay at Celine's parents' and we'd make love in the kitchen and marvel how we can still be hungry for each other.

“But she ran off with the first guy who batted his blue eyes at her and left me with an arrow through my heart and a hole in my bank account.” He loosened his collar. “I'd rather walk the plank than fall in love again. But if I have no choice, it has to be with someone who is willing to take out my false teeth and push me in a wheelchair.”

“You have a curious view of marriage.” Mathieu grinned. “I'm happy if Helene makes crepes on Sundays.”

“But I would do the same,” he insisted. “Every morning I would bring her café au lait in bed and in the evening I'd stop at the market and pick up pork and haricots verts. We'd drink a bold Syrah and talk about the bank and my illustrations. Later we'd move to the study and nibble chocolate profiteroles and discuss art and music.” He paused. “Our lips would touch and we wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

“Getting married sounds like a bad idea,” Mathieu laughed. “You'll both get fat.”

“The only people getting married are Isabel and Antoine,” Alec sighed.

“I have something to give you.” Mathieu reached into his pocket. “Bettina sent me, in my capacity as your attorney, a letter for your mother.”

“What does it say?” Alec felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

“Legally Claudia should vacate 40 Rue de Passy on January fourth. But since it is the holidays, Bettina will allow her to remain an additional two weeks.” He unfolded the paper. “She is welcome to take the desk in the den, but the furniture in the grand salon and dining room must stay in the house.”

“How kind,” Alec snapped. “I'm surprised she didn't include a farewell
bûche de Noël
and bottle of Château Pétrus.”

“The contents of the wine cellar belong to the estate.” Mathieu looked up. “And your father's cigar collection and Edith Piaf albums.”

“I hope Édouard smokes all the cigars and gets bloody lung cancer,” Alec grunted. “You're an attorney, isn't there something you can do?”

“Bettina is within her rights, you're the only one who can stop her.”

“I'm not Gus who can stop a speeding bullet with his paw,” Alec sighed.

“You could marry Isabel by January third,” Mathieu suggested. “Then 40 Rue de Passy would be yours.”

“Even if I am in love with Isabel, I haven't asked her on a date,” Alec spluttered. “I can hardly ask her to meet me in the judge's chambers of the Hôtel de Ville.” He paused. “Oh, and please wear white, preferably with a veil.” His voice softened. “She would look lovely in a knee-length dress, she has slender calves.”

“You're in Paris! Falling in love is as common as cheese soufflé,” Mathieu said, handing Alec the envelope. “I have to go, Helene and I are picking out a baby carriage. Please give Claudia the letter.”

“I'll go see my mother today.” Alec nodded.

“You might want to change your suit.” Mathieu walked to the door. “You look like a street performer at the Christmas markets.”

Alec took off his tie and wished he and Isabel had never visited the Christmas markets. Then she wouldn't have met the fortune-teller and believed she had to marry a French aristocrat.